A Good Omen
by Nareliel
Summary: "The memories still haunt my dreams, the heat of dragon fire, the screams of my people, and the desolation of our hope..." This is a short piece that would not leave me alone after watching The Hobbit An Unexpected Journey for the first time. It deals with Thorin's thoughts directly following the end of the movie.


_**AN****: This is a short oneshot set after the end of An Unexpected Journey. In fact, I wrote it almost immediately after seeing the film for the first time. It draws more on my impressions of the characters as portrayed in the movie than the book. (And, yes, I do realize that some of Thorin's future hopes are in vain. I am well aware of The Hobbit's ending.) This is just a small piece that would not leave me alone. Please read and respond.**_

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**A Good Omen**

Smoke curls into the darkening sky, the flames of the fire ever reminding me of the flames that engulfed Erebor so many years ago. The memories still haunt my dreams, the heat of dragon fire, the screams of my people, and the desolation of our hope as the elves looked on and did nothing. The wizard thinks me too prideful, my ill feelings toward them misplaced and harbored in vain. Yet, he did not stand where I did, watching Thranduil's vast army turn away as Smaug ravaged our home on that day when pines roared, trees became torches, and Erebor was lost. Gandalf does not understand the feelings of betrayal I retain, but – in these dark times – I fear there will come a day when he too will learn the bite of treachery, the sting of a traitor cutting that much deeper when he is believed an ally.

A stab of pain slices through my thoughts, bringing me back to the present as I sit back to rest my battle worn body. We've not traveled far today, though our hearts have been lightened by the first glimpse of the mountain, our bodies are weary from fighting goblins, orcs, and wargs. We have stopped for the night, hoping to find rest and a chance to tend our wounds. My own injuries took quite a bit of care. However, between the ministrations of Oin and Gandalf, I've no doubt I will be ready to journey on with the break of day. In truth, I've no other choice, for even now I feel the glances of the company, wondering how I will endure through the night.

Balin watches me from his seat near the fire; his wise eyes assessing the damage and judging my wisdom in staying true to this quest. His words from the night spent in the hobbit-hole seem to hang between us. _You don't have to do this. You have a choice. You've done honorably by our people, made a good life for us in the Blue Mountains. A life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold of Erebor._ He worries that I seek only the vast wealth taken by the dragon, yet I've seen the sickness wrought by the love of gold – my grandfather's illness serves as a shadow to his memory. There is more to the mountain than its treasures. Erebor is our homeland, its song etched into our very souls calling its sons to step forth and reclaim it from the desecration brought by Smaug. For me there is no choice. I nod in Balin's direction, acknowledging his doubts while reminding him of my obligations in one gesture. A sad smile surfaces through his beard, but he accepts my decision nonetheless and turns his gaze back to the fire.

Not far from him sits Bifur, sharpening his blades and softly singing a song rendered incoherent by his impaired speech. He's a dwarf of simple tastes and one of the few in this company who is not of my kin. Though not a warrior of Balin's experience, he has seen his share of battle. The orc axe lodged in his skull bears witness to his determination and, though he is not from a noble heritage, I would rather have his loyalty than the pledge of Dain Ironfoot's best fighters. For when I called, Bifur answered in spite of the dangers we were certain to face. Though humble by birth, he is noble in spirit and a testament to the tenacity and honor of our race.

Next to him, his cousin Bofur tends the stew and guards it from Bombur's less than subtle attempts at sneaking spoonfuls from the pot. Like Bifur, the brothers come from more modest stock than the rest of the company, yet their bantering and antics hold back the harsh realities of the task we face. Bofur possesses a quick, if not occasionally coarse, wit; his humor somewhat shaded by his rustic roots. Still, he has a way of speaking his mind that often cuts to the heart of the matter. _No you're right. We don't belong anywhere_. His words to Master Baggins in the mountain cave echo through my memory. He understands, perhaps better than some of the rest of the company, what this quest means. We've roamed Middle Earth for far too long. It is time we reclaimed our homeland; it's time we were home. I've no doubt Bofur and Bombur will see this through no matter the cost. Though likeable dwarves, I've seen them both in the heat of battle. Neither should be taken lightly, for in spite of Bofur's humble appearance and Bombur's immense stature, they are effective fighters and have proven to be deadly opponents. These dwarves may be but simple folk, yet I am glad to have them in my company and would gladly call them kin in spirit if not by blood.

Not far from them rest two whose presence both gladdens my heart yet worries my mind. Fili, the oldest of my sister's sons, smokes his pipe while scanning the company to assess their spirits. He is a brooder, less volatile than his younger brother, and more settled in his station of birth. I've watched him train over the years, becoming proficient with knife, sword, and axe, so that he might cleave asunder the threats to our people. I fear under my guidance he and his brother feel a weight of purpose neither fully understands. It has led them to join our quest when neither of them truly knows anything of the world into which they have plunged. Beside him, Kili sits somberly staring at the flames. His youthful boasts of nights before are forgotten now. The innocence with which he laughed at orc night raids is gone. Though I wish him less brash – for arrogance can kill in battle as swiftly as skill – it is an innocence I am, nonetheless, sorry to see lost. He too has trained since his youth to be adept at handling most any weapon, though he shows exceptional aptitude with a bow. Both have sought over the years to gain my approval, yet neither realize they had it long ago. I am not an easy master, of that I am sure, yet I could not be prouder of these two were they my own sons. In truth, given the scarcity of the fairer half of our race, they are likely the closest I will ever come to fatherhood. Given time to mature, I would not begrudge passing my title to one of my nephews, should my line not be secured in my own children.

The thought of heirs brings my gaze to rest upon Gloin, the one dwarf in our company who has found a wife and is already blessed with a son. He tends the fire, for – second only to the wizard – he and his brother have an uncanny skill with igniting flame. He is a rarity amongst our people, for dwarvish women are highly sought and difficult to find. Their numbers have dwindled since that black day in which Smaug attacked. Men, elves, and even hobbits view us as greedy hoarders of treasure. Yet for all the care with which they believe us to protect our gold, they've no idea how much more closely we guard our women, lest they are lost altogether and our fate becomes that of the tree-creatures Gandalf calls Ents. Indeed, to have a wife and child, Gloin is a lucky dwarf and I am honored by the sacrifice he makes in joining us on our venture. He is brave and loyal; as is his brother Oin, who moves about the camp seeing to the wounds of the rest. He administers a salve of his own creation that is potent at first yet sooths upon application. I am a testament to its powers for he used plenty of it while bandaging my wounds, and I credit a good deal of what comfort I feel to the treatment.

Some credit is due Gandalf's incantations as well; though I would not tell the wizard so. He believes himself far too wise already and, though it is true he holds great wisdom, stroking egos has never been my way. I fear even my civility has nearly been beaten from me by the cares of this life and the plight of my people. Yet, I am thankful for the wizard, nonetheless. He has kept the map and key safe from others, and though we do not always agree upon strategy, Gandalf has proven a good friend to the dwarves. Even now, he seeks to lighten the company's mood by blowing smoke rings of various shades and forms to offer their minds a pleasant diversion from the horrors we have just endured.

Only Dwalin stands immune to the spectacle. His gaze ever flickers to the surrounding edges of our camp. He is on guard, as always a vigilant warrior. I trust him with my life, for we have fought many enemies together. Dwalin is perhaps the one member of this group I could call brother, our friendship forged in blood and battle. We've faced many foes and dealt with many challenges, and he has been ever loyal. He is the only one in this company I spar with to keep my senses sharp. The others I fear too old or too inexperienced while Dwalin is steady and stubborn enough to give me a true test of skill. I never questioned whether he would come on this journey, for he simply nodded his assent when I first proposed retaking our home. Should I fail in my quest, surrender my soul before I've reached Erebor's doors, Dwalin is the one dwarf I trust to see the company through to safety. He is strong enough to bear the burden of leadership even in the shadows of grief. Glancing about at the youngest members of our group I realize just how much sorrow my friend would be left to handle; for a warrior's heart is more accustomed to dealing with loss than the untried hearts of innocent youth.

The thought brings my attention to the youngest dwarf of our company. Over to the side, Ori sits with book in hand sketching our images. I catch a glimpse of his rendition of me, and it warms my heart that the youth has drawn me with a noble countenance in spite of witnessing my fall to Azog's warg. The sketch he draws has me standing tall atop the pine's trunk, surrounded by smoke and flame with sword drawn and shield at ready, preparing to charge my greatest foe. To think such an image should be emblazoned in his young mind with honorable dignity gives me pause and reminds me of my obligation to see this company safely to Erebor. Yes, I could not face the task without them, but they are all my responsibility. It is my duty to stand between them and danger, much as I took Ori's place before the goblin king. Somehow, this young dwarf has captured in his simple drawing that part of my being that demands I be the sword to lead them to victory and the shield to guard them from death. I am humbled by his depiction and honored by his faith in my leadership.

To his left, Dori sits keeping an eye on his youngest sibling. Did I not know better, I would think him the lad's father instead of his brother. It seems the dwarf is forever watching after the other for fear the youth will fall prey to orcs, wargs, or goblins at every turn. I sometimes wonder just how Dori would handle a courtship should Ori be so lucky as to find a willing dwarf maid. Yet, in spite of his often pessimistic outlook, I am thankful to have Dori in our number. Durin knows I've worry enough for my sister's sons without adding Ori as well. They are the three youngest of our group and have the most hope for seeing Erebor restored to its former glory. Indeed, I understand Dori's protectiveness of his youngest sibling; though it does not seem to extend as abundantly toward Nori. Dori's younger brother is somewhat of a mystery. He keeps to himself but is not shy about voicing his opinions. I've yet to decide what I think of him as a dwarf, but his willing heart and loyal sword have earned my respect. Like his brothers, he joined our quest knowing the risks and he has proven to have a steady hand in combat and a nimble mind in times of danger. Nori and his brothers possess willing hearts; I can ask no more of any member in this company.

_That's why I came back, because you don't have one - a home. It was taken from you, but I will try to help you take it back if I can_. The words of our burglar whisper through my mind, chastising me for my earlier doubts. I could not find a better example of a willing spirit than Master Baggins. For though he is the least among us in fighting prowess and the smallest in stature, he is earnest in his desire to support our cause. Gandalf was correct, there is more to the hobbit than I first presumed. My gaze drifts to where he reclines against a bit of rock that the rest of us would hardly deem large enough for a doorstop much less a backrest. For the first time on our journey, Master Baggins seems truly at ease in our midst, and I realize the fault is mine alone. The others ushered him into our party eagerly enough, but it was not until I acknowledged him as belonging amongst us that they wholeheartedly accepted his presence. My earlier perceptions of him were unfounded, shaded by my own illusions of a warrior's requirements. In truth, I misjudged him, and I was wrong to do so. I see now that the hobbit's worth lay not in his skills with a weapon, but his courage to wield one in the defense of a dream to which he holds no claim. Master Baggins took up his blade and stood guard over my unconscious form, placing himself between me and Azog the Defiler. He has killed for me, an action taken by few save my most loyal fighters. I owe him my life, and I owe him my acceptance. Indeed, I owe him my friendship. _I do believe the worst is behind us_. The hobbit's optimism brings a smile to my face, and though I know dark days still lie ahead, I find comfort in his words. In spite of all the dangers we must face, I will consider our burgler a good omen; for in this darkness, Master Baggins gives me hope.

**The End**

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_**Thank you for taking the time to read this short oneshot. Please let me know what you thought.**_


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